Finally! I had to rewrite whole pages of this chapter about 5 times to get it at least somewhat right! I hope you enjoy it =D

Sherlock isn't mine.

Chapter 4

Sherlock had never seen his brother speechless before. It was an interesting experience. It was also a very short one.

"What in the world are you doing?" The older boy asked, his eyes wide and his tone blank. His face was a pale sort of grey. Sherlock closed the journal and placed it on the desk. Why was Mycroft here? He was supposed to be at Oxford!

"Why are you home?" Sherlock asked warily, because he could tell that Mycroft's question had been a rhetorical one and did not know what else to say.

"Why am I… Why am I home? Why are you in my room?" Sherlock had never heard Mycroft shout before. Before Sherlock knew what was happening, Mycroft had grabbed him by the collar of his school uniform and pinned him against the wall.

"Why are you in here?" He hissed. His eyes were on fire. Sherlock had never seen anything quite as terrifying in his life.

"I tested a lock picking kit," He found himself mumbling before he could think of a clever lie, or at least a more tactful version of the truth.

"Three times? On my door, and my drawer, and on the number one most unambiguously private object in my whole bloody room?" Sherlock did not answer. Mycroft pushed him harder against the wall, his fist crushing Sherlock's sternum.

"OW!" Sherlock cried. Mycroft was much stronger than he looked. "Mycroft, I-"

"Tell no one, do you understand?" Mycroft growled. Sherlock took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. Mycroft did not look like he could kill; he looked like he actually wanted to. "Sherlock, look at me and answer the question!"

"I- I would never," Sherlock muttered quickly, meeting Mycroft's eyes for a fraction of a second and looking away again. He could feel his heart beating wildly, he felt like a rabbit staring into the eyes of a wolf. "I would never say anything."

"I genuinely thank you from the bottom of my heart," Mycroft's tone was so icy that Sherlock could swear that the temperature in the room dropped. The young adult then threw him against the wall, walked to his door and locked it with a key that he pulled from his pocket.

"Er… What are you doing?" Sherlock asked, slightly wary.

"I want to talk to you. I can't have you running out," To Sherlock's surprise, Mycroft then threw himself onto his bed backwards and pressed his palms to his eyes. Sherlock could see him taking a few deep breaths.

"Are you even sorry?" He finally asked. He still sounded angry, but not even half as furious as before. Sherlock noticed that his voice was shaking slightly.

"Yes," Sherlock said, staring at his shoes, and he meant it. The boy did not often feel remorse, but one look at the state his brother was in showed him that he had crossed every line there was to cross.

"You're shaking," He then remarked. This was all wrong. Mycroft was supposed to be condescending and suave. He was supposed to be furious, screaming at him with his eyes on fire. He was not supposed to be shaking.

"Well, I have just been outed by an amateur lock picking kit. Allow me a moment to compose myself," The effect of his light tone was somewhat ruined by the noticeable tremor in his voice. Both boys were silent. Thirty seconds later, Mycroft sat up, untied his tie and leaned against the wall with his knees against his chest. Sherlock had not seen his normally dignified brother in such a casual pose in a very long time. It seemed like he was actively forcing himself to be calm.

"Hand me the kit," He said quietly, and Sherlock complied. Mycroft looked at it for a second, "You stole it today…" Mycroft's tone was steady and calm, and his eyes were completely devoid of emotion, "and you taught yourself how to use it, that's very clever. You use too much force, though. You're supposed to open the lock gently and elegantly, not prise it open like a chimpanzee," the final words were uttered very sharply and with a little disgust. It was as if Mycroft was saying 'If you're going to force your way into my room, at least do it with style'. Sherlock looked at him questioningly. He had no idea how Mycroft figured everything out. Sherlock himself could usually make simple deductions about classmates and such, but Mycroft was much better at it than he was. Sherlock wondered what kind of evidence he left on the picks. Mycroft noticed Sherlock's confusion and cracked a tiny smile.

"You use too much force, and this kit is cheap. Notice that you scratched the coating off some of the areas of the pick, here," Mycroft pointed to one of the picks that Sherlock used more than others. "I could tell that you taught yourself because usually these areas of the pick would not even come into contact with the lock, and the fact that they did means that you had no idea what you were doing. I know you taught yourself today because some of the coating dust is still on the pick. I know that you stole it today because I know you, and you would not have waited between stealing it and using it for the first time. Simple."

"Simple," Sherlock agreed. It always was, and yet Mycroft was still better at it than he was.

"So, let's hear it. How did you steal this?" The fact that Mycroft looked so calm now led Sherlock to think that his brother was concentrating as much as he could on deductions and facts to keep his mind off everything else.

"How did you know I didn't buy it?" Sherlock asked, sitting down in Mycroft's chair where he sat before.

"If you had bought it, it would have come with an instruction manual, moron." Mycroft had never, ever called him that before. Sherlock was actually quite hurt. Then again, he guessed he deserved to be called names. Five minutes ago Sherlock was sure that his brother was going to murder him, so if anything, he should really be grateful. The story took a few minutes, and as Sherlock spoke Mycroft listened without a sound. At the end, his brother smiled a genuinely amused smile.

"That's the most ridiculously elaborate and unnecessarily complicated plan I have ever heard," He said, "I would have just broken into his locker, emptied his kit into my pocket, put some sort of heavy stone inside to give it the right weight, and left the case inside. The kid wouldn't have opened the case during break times, because he wouldn't have had time, and he had no reason to anyway since he couldn't even use it. He would have only found out about the crime at the end of the day, at which point I would already be on the train home and no one would have had any reason at all to suspect me." Sherlock gave him a sulky look. Perhaps Mycroft's revenge for what Sherlock did was to repeatedly make him feel like a complete imbecile.

Mycroft suddenly rose from his bed and ran his hand through his hair. He collected the journals and returned them to the drawer under the TV set. Then he pushed it shut with his foot. He took a deep breath and said "Sherlock, do you realize what would happen to me if you ever decided to tell anyone anything of what you read?" His voice was quiet. While the two were talking about deductions Mycroft had seemed almost normal, if a little more cynical and critical. Now that they were finished, it was like his brother had deflated. He did not even look angry anymore. He just looked tired, miserable, even scared.

"I told you I would never tell anyone," Sherlock answered. Mycroft sighed and sat back down on his bed with his back against the wall.

"That doesn't answer my question. Sherlock, if you ever tell anyone what you've read people would never trust me again because they would wonder how many of their secrets I know. Also, father would kick me out of the house, which would be tremendously inconvenient for me at this present time. My goals are currently entirely dependent on whether or not you can keep a secret."

"I understand."

"Do you?" Mycroft was not asking sarcastically. He was genuinely curious. Sherlock stopped to think about it. If anything he had read got out, Mycroft would lose everything he had worked for diligently, almost obsessively, for the past nineteen years. How could Sherlock possibly understand anything like that? What has he ever done that could even compare?

"Understand cognitively, yes. Relate, no," Sherlock finally answered. Mycroft smiled a very humourless smile. He reached into his pocket and handed Sherlock the key to the room.

"You can leave."

"What?"

"You. Can. Leave. See you later, Brother," Mycroft gave a small sarcastic wave and Sherlock could tell that he really wanted him gone.

"That's it?" Sherlock asked. He was staring at his brother, who had taken a book out of his bag and was now reading it.

"What did you think I would do? Kill you? I just wanted to make sure you understood how important it was that you keep my secrets to yourself. I believe you do, and as much as I would love to shout at you until you turn fifteen, we both have better uses for our time." Sherlock wondered what he would do if he were in Mycroft's position. He would freak out. He would cry and hit the person who read his journal, and he would lie through his teeth to somehow convince this person that everything he had read was false, but Sherlock should have known that Mycroft would not do any of these things. If reading his journals had taught him anything, it's that Mycroft had always been the more logical of the two. He would gain nothing from these things, and so he did not do them.

"And you're not going to punish me?"

"I'm not father. I was never going to punish you. Now get out." Mycroft turned a page in his book, but Sherlock was pretty sure that his eyes had not moved a micrometre since he started reading.

"You're not going to make me give back the kit?" Sherlock asked.

"I think you probably should, but I have to say that right now I could not care less if you do." Sherlock unlocked the door and turned to give Mycroft his key back.

"Keep it," he said without looking up. Sherlock had no idea how Mycroft even knew he was being offered the key, "we both know that if I give you access to my room it will lose its appeal and you will never come in here again."

"Are you serious?" Sherlock knew that Mycroft probably had some sort of agenda, and everything he was doing was probably based on countless deductions that he could not fathom, but he still could not believe his luck.

"Well, and I'll also change the type of lock I use on my drawer, obviously. Goodbye, Sherlock."

Sherlock turned and left the room. He closed the door behind him and it locked with a faint click. Two seconds later he heard the unmistakable sounds of a fist crashing into a wall, followed by the unmistakable sounds of someone biting back a cry of pain. His brother was still only human, after all.

Did you like it? Please review if you did (or if you didn't, or if you have nothing to say, or if your name starts with A, or B, or C.. You get where I'm going with this). I don't know when I'll be able to upload the next chapter. I haven't finished it yet, and I'm going on a week long trip st Sunday, so I'll either upload the next chapter this Saturday, or the next. Either way, don't be worried if I disappear for a little while. I promises this story will continue!

Again, review please!